One Happy Memory
by drakos4
Summary: Am I the only one who cannot forget the look Sansa sends Sandor when she leaves him at the table in the great hall after telling him that she is not a little bird anymore! I chose to believe that those two have been up to something later that night and here is what I hope has happened.
1. Chapter 1

The oldest Stark daughter watches with apprehension as the two serving girls approach the men sitting at the table in the great hall. While the red haired wildling does not hesitate for a moment, the second seems to have other things on his mind. He chases the poor girl away with the growl of a bad tempered dog.

Sansa's face does not betray emotions but inside her there is a whirlwind oft them spinning. For one she is relieved. She is not sure how she'd felt if the tall warrior had accepted the invitation. Then there is a sense of doom. She has given fate a chance but fate has kicked the ball right back at her. Now she must make her move. Or not, as the tiny voice of cowardice whispers. One could just pretend one has never ever thought about those things in the first place and no one would be the wiser. Yet one emotion reigns over everything else: excitement. No, she is Sansa Stark and she will not pretend, or back out or cower. Least of all to her own case of nerves. With renewed determination she starts towards the lone drinker.

„She could have made you happy for a little while," she opens the conversation and takes a seat opposite him. If the Hound is surprised by the Lady of Winterfell joining him uninvited he does not let it on. „There is only one thing that would make me happy", he replies, refilling his cup with wine, not even looking at her. „And what is that?" Sansa asks pleasantly. At that he raises his eyes to meet hers. „That is my fucking business!"

Not many men can get away with talking to her like that but Sansa is not offended. He really has not changed all that much. Now he seeks to intimidate her by staring but she does not bat an eyelid.

„Used to be you could not look at me", he muses mockingly. The redhead smiles but it is not a happy smile. „That was a long time ago. I have seen much worse than you since then." The Hound keeps staring, having found what he believes to be a tender spot and he is won't let go. „Heard you were broken in," he sinks his teeth into it, „heard you were broken in rough."

Sansa Stark would not have tolerated such talk from anyone else but she knows what he is doing.

„And he got what he deserved," she says camly, „I gave it to him." That piques his interest. „How?" She savours what she is going to say for a moment before she answers him: „Hounds."

The dry reply manages to do the shere impossible, it makes Sandor Clegane laugh. His amusement does not last long though. „You have changed, little bird." He sounds regretful but she cannot argue the truth. „None of it would have happened if you had left King's Landing with me. No Littlefinger, no Ramsay, none of it." He shakes his head at the memory. Sansa remembers it, too. He could have thrown her over his shoulder and just taken her like he had done when those men were about to rape her but he had given her a choice. Nobody ever had done that before. It was not his fault that her decision had been the wrong one. Sansa takes a deep breath and covers one of his large brown paws with her elegant white hand.

Alarmed his eyes tart back to hers. „Without Littlefinger and Ramsay and all the rest I would have stayed a little bird for all my life. It wasn't a pleasant journey but despite of it, or maybe because of it, I am who I am today. And I like who I am."

For once the Hound is at a loss for words. Not even an insult comes to mind, not least because her hand is still holding his and he seems incapable of pulling it away. Then suddenly she sits back and takes her hand with her, leaving him feeling strangely deprived.

„You are going back to King's Landing", the Lady Stark states matter of factly, while he is still struggling to regain his wits. „I have unfinished business there", the scarred man mumbles, toying with his empty mug. Sansa reaches for the beaker and fills both their cups. „Your brother."

He grunts affirmation.

„And you don't intend to come back here." Finally he stops fiddling with the wine and looks up again. „What's it to you?"

It takes all her resolve to stay calm and composed but she's had long years of practice. „Arya told me what you said to her after the fight with Brienne..." Brown eyes lock with grey ones in another staring contest. The tension between them is almost palpable. „...and I know you said that to make her kill you."

„Much good it did me. Cold little bitch left me to rot alive anyway," he hisses through clenched teeth. The memory still smarts.

„I for one am glad she did," Sansa replies softly. „You and I have a lot in common, you know."

„Oh really, like what? Soft beds? Fancy clothes? A high and mighty castle? Loving siblings?" The Hound has his bite back but his victim shrugs it off. „We both have been hurt and betrayed by people who were supposed to protect us. We both pledged our allegiance to an insane child tyrant, we have suffered, we have made compromises because not doing so would have meant death but eventually we did fight back. We both found strength in our need for revenge. I just got my chance a bit sooner. Yours will come but it can cost you your life." She has to stop for a second to make sure she has his undiveded attention for what she is about to say next. Yes, his gaze is firmly fixed on her.

„I want to make sure you have at least one happy memory before that happens."

There, she'd said it.


	2. Chapter 2

-2-

If lightning had struck Sandor Clegane, the impact could not have been bigger. He sits motionless, speechless and seemingly isn't breathing either. Sansa takes a sip from her wine. It tastes stale and sour and she puts the mug away. After a few very long seconds the Hound downs his in one go, red liquid spilling from the corners of his mouth down his chin, then reaches across the table for her rejected one and does away with that as well. With a loud thump he slams the cup on the wooden table top.

„Lady, you either had too much to drink, or I not enough."

„Don't look at me as if I am crazy", she can't keep the heat out of her voice any longer and leans foward. „And don't pretend the thought never crossed your mind. I saw how you looked at me at King's Landing!" „You were a little girl!" he snaps, balling his hands into fists, „I did nothing but protect you!"

„I am no little girl anymore and I don't need to be protected. Not from you."

Their faces are so close now she feels his breath on her cheek. „You will not hurt me."

With these words she stands. She can see that they have effected him. He seems deflated, the fight has left him.

„I am not asking you or ordering or trying to coerce you into my bed. All I am saying is, if you want me, I am there. I trust you will be able to find the way to my chambers."

And with one last look, daring him to deny her, she turns and walks away.

Sandor Clegane's head is still spinning from what he has just heard. She wants him? SHE wants HIM? What in fuck's name was going on? Damn all Stark bitches, the whole crazy lot of them.

He grabs the beaker for more wine but does not pour. Yes, he'd had a soft spot for her at Geoffrey's court. She was the prettiest thing he had ever laid eyes on but she had only been a child. Until the morning he had seen the bloody sheets and had known that it would not be long now before she'd become a plaything for the little bastard King in yet another sick way.

He'd been determined to protect her, even from the King himself but he could not do so openly. It was too dangerous for both of them, so he was biding his time. Then came the Battle of Blackwater and he had snapped. Too much fire, too much insanity. He had told them to fuck off. The guard, the kingdom and the king could all go and fuck themselves. Sandor Clegane had had enough. But he'd gone back into the palace one more time to offer the little bird a way out. And even after all she had seen, she was still too afraid or did not trust him enough to go with him. She'd decided to put her trust in Stannis Baratheon. The rest was history.

He finally fills his cup again. The wine is starting to do it's job. A few more and he will be too drunk to think. Or do anything stupid, like going to her.

The nerve of that girl! As if he depended on her for pleasure, as if there were no other women!

But the fact was that there had not been any women since... he found it hard to recall. Not since King's Landing, that was for sure.

When he had lain there on the hillside, bleeding, broken and beaten, he had thought of her indeed. He had wondered what had become of her, not knowing that he and Arya had missed her by mere days.

Fate has brought them back together, he still no more than a dog without a home, she Lady of the mightiest stronghold in the North, no longer a helpless child but a fearless, beautiful young woman, and she has offered herself to him. „Why, for fuck's sake?" he asks himself for the umptheenth time.

But this time another voice chimes in, asking: „Why the fuck do you care? Why not take what is offered freely and have that one night. Something to carry with you to hell. Something no one can take away from you!" The voice sounds familiar but he does not want to listen. He seeks to drown it in more wine but finds the beaker empty. With an angry roar he throws it against the nearest stone pillar where it smashes into pieces. A few heads turn but decide to mind their own business when they recognise the clearly upset warrior.

The tall man stands, leaning heavily on the table, shaking his head in an attempt to get rid of the crimson mist that has begun to cloud his mind but it only lifts to reveal a vision of Beric Dondarrion, telling him to NOT be a stubborn mule for once in his life.

The Hound chuckles in defeat. „If it stops you from haunting me from the grave, so be it!"

The vision disappears and he straightens up to his full height. He still thinks it's a bad idea but his mind is made up and maybe, maybe this one time his foolishness will result in something pleasurable.

On the way towards the part of the castle where he knows the private rooms of the Starks are situated, the big man tells himself that it is mainly curiosity that drives him there. He passes a few guards who give him odd looks but do not dare to question his right to venture where he does. Realising he has no idea on which door to knock he turns and asks one of the watchman where he might find the Lady Sansa. The young boy points towards the end of the long corridor where a lonesome figure is sat on a low bench. Nodding his thanks the Hound continues his way deeper into the bowels of Winterfell. When he stops in front of the last guard he finds him fast asleep. Anger wells up in the man who has never neglected his duty in such a way and he kicks the careless watchman hard on the shins. The unfortunate soldier wakes with a scream and jumps up but the pain inflicted on his legs makes him tumble and he crashes hard against the door he has been guarding so badly, thereby alerting the sole inhabitant of the room behind it that a visitor is likely to have arrived.

An enraged Hound is about to teach the the man on the floor a thorough lesson on guard duties but stops dead in his tracks as the heavy door is being opened and Sansa stands there dressed in only a loose fitting robe over a silken white shift, her flaming red hair in a single braid. She assesses the situation with one look and dismisses the negligent watchman for the night. Hardly able to believe the narrow escape he is given he scrambles to his feet, bows and quickly limps away.

The warrior and the lady pay him no more attention, they are busy staring at each other. Eventually Sansa steps aside and beckons for her visitor to enter. The door closes behind them with a final click. They are alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: I am fully aware that Sandor Clegane is not wearing his armour during the feast in the great hall. But I wrote that scene before I went back to check and the leather coat, though looking damn hot on him, just did not do it in that case.

-3-

Apruptly Sansa turns and strides to a sideboard where a caraffe and goblets along with some cold meats, cheese and bread have been put. „More wine?" she asks with her back to him. He cannot see her face but he detects a faint tremor in her voice. Though tempted he declines the offered drink.

He does not want anything to dull his senses, not now, when he has made up his mind. He is not going to miss a thing, nor forget.

Without any task to perform she turns to face him, hands folded in front of her in an attempt to keep them from shaking. The ever perceptive Hound still sees it and he likes it. It means that he can still make her nervous.

He takes another step into the room and that is as far as he is prepared to accommodate her. He does not see the need for extra pleasantries, she knows exactly why he is there and it was her bloody idea after all.

Sansa smiles at his defiance. „You are not going to make this easy, are you?"

Her openness catches him off guard and he raises his hands a little, admitting that he is not sure what's expected of him. „I am good at fucking whores, not courting ladies."

It dawns on Sansa that he is also entering into somewhat unfamiliar territory and she feels a little more at ease.

„I don't wish to be courted and I don't want to be treated like a Lady. I prefer you to be you." She closes the distance between them, searching for a hint as to how to proceed, in the end relying on common sense. „We could start by getting you out of this armour."

His first impuls is to deny her. His armour is...well, just that, his armour, in more than one way, but he sees the foolishness of refusing to undress like a maiden and lets her get on with it.

With the practiced fingers of one who has done so countless times before, she undoes the numerous clasps and strings that hold the various parts together and in place. He thinks that this must be how she assisted her father and brothers before her whole world fell apart.

Sansa seems to read his mind. „Ramsay made me do this", she informs him coolly as she stores away one metal piece after the other. „Always making sure I knew exactly who's blood I got on my hands and how he took it." She gestures for him to lift his arms and begins to untie the padded vest he wears under the armour. „He was extremely creative when killing somebody he thought I liked." The thick fabric is pulled off his shoulders and suddenly he feels exposed, standing there in his coarse tunic. Even more so when the young woman starts circling him as if inspecting a horse for purchase. He ponders whether to be offended but she is only gathering her courage for the next crucial move. Stopping behind him she puts a tentative hand on each side of his waist, untucks his shirt and slips her fingers underneath it.

The sudden contact makes him hiss in surprise but he remains stock still. Sansa takes a few moments to get used to the sensation of actually touching him, then, without taking her hands of him, she ducks under his right arm and snakes around to look up into his disfigured face. She remembers being so afraid of that face in the beginning, before she learned to look beyond the scars and the hateful words. She had known nothing of the world then, being only a caged little bird.

Sansa Stark is not fool enough to believe that she is free now. She is but in a different cage, trapped by her name and title, by custom and tradition, the expectations of her peers and people. But she will have this. She will have him. People and expectations be damned.

The Hound watches in awe as she shrugs out of her robe and lets it fall to the floor. Immediately her hands are back on his middle, now pushing upwards, trying to push the shirt over his head but he has to help her, he is too tall. The shirt is thrown carelessly on top of the ever growing pile of discarded clothing at their feet.

His torso is hers now to explore. Hands stroking broad shoulders, fingers toying with the thick but surprisingly soft hair that covers his chest and trails low on his belly before diving underneath the waistband of his breeches.

Sandor can only stare into those gray eyes. The feeling of her small hands, so warm and soft on his skin has shaken him to the core. He cannot recall anyone ever touching him like this and he fights the urge to grab her, take her to the nearby bed and give her what she asked him here for. He is not even sure why he fights because her caresses are torture but it is the sweetest torture he can imagine and he is inclined to endure it just a little longer.

Again she slowly walks around him, fingertips tracing the the many scars, old and new, making him tingle all over. Making him hard, too.

When she finishes her round he tries to read her. He only gets one of her mysterious little smiles for his trouble but her eyes are ablaze as she mirrors his earlier movement, raising her hands above her head.

The battle hardened warrior inhales sharply. „There is no turning back after this, little bird."

Sansa wordlessly nods her understanding. She has not expected him to be so patient but she is grateful for it, for allowing her to marvel at his strength, his powerful build and the tell tale signs of a fighterr's body; he is absolutely glorious.

Of course she sees that he is hard pressed not to rush into action and she prepares herself but once again he surprises her when instead of tearing her gown away he goes down on one knee. Now she is the one staring in wonder into dark brown eyes that shine warmer than she'd ever thought they could. He breaks free from her gaze and concentrates on the task at hand, which is to slowly lift the hem of the thin white gown she is still wearing. Revelling in every inch of skin he reveals, he halters only as he reaches her thighs, where he admires the patch of flaming red hair cushioning her sex but soon moves higher until he comes face to face with her breasts, which he grazes with the tips of his thumbs. „So soft," he murmers and scans her face for signs of regret or revulsion but finds only acceptance. With a growl he stands. The fine silken shift joins the heap of garments on the floor and she stands naked. She is more beautiful than he thought was possible and part of him wishes he could tell her but that sort of talk is not for him. And right now he does not really want to talk at all.

Sansa knows the moment has come, knows he has reached his limits and she does not enjoy standing naked in the middle of the room very much either. It's time to speed things up, but how?

„What do you want?" she asks in a rather small voice, betraying her inexperience in those matters.

His fists open and clench a couple of times, his face is grim now.

„I want to fuck you so long and hard that you won't be able to walk straight for a week." There is no time to blanche at that threat, or was it a promise? In one swift effortless move he has her in his arms and carries her to the fur coverd bed. He still has just enough sense not to throw her down like a serving wench, kicks off his boots and crawls on top of her.


	4. Chapter 4

-4-

Sansa Stark is not entirely as unfazed by the prospect of being taken by this giant of a man as she acts to be. The last time she has been in this position has been extremely painful, in fact, each and every time she has been with a man has been just that. Ramsay has abused and brutalised her physically and mentally in so many ways, that for the longest time she has been certain she will never overcome her fear, never will let a man near her again.

And maybe she never would have, if not for the reappearance of Sandor Clegane.

It had not happened at once. Catching sight of him arriving at Winterfell with Jon and Daenerys and the great army of Dothraki and Unsullied had come as a shock. Both, Arya and Brienne had told her he was dead and she had almost felt relieved at news of his death. One less witness to her ordeal and humiliations.

Seeing him so unexpectantly had opened a gate to those old memories she had fought so hard to bury deep, but with sudden clarity she realised that he was the only decent man she had met during her time at King's Landing and ever since, really.

As Lady of the keep she had been pretty much occupied with the arrival of such a large host of people and dealing with this new Queen that her brother had brought home. A queen he had given up his title as King in the North for. A queen Sansa did not trust in the least. But over the days that followed she had found time to carefully question everybody she thought had knowledge of how he had fared since deserting the Kingsguard. No one had been a richer source of information than her little sister, whom she grilled until she finally got the whole story. After that she found herself searching for him among the crowds in the courtyard and the great hall and though he must have been aware of her, too, he never acknowledged or sought her out. That gave her time to come to terms with the fact that she wanted to be near him, that he was the one man she could allow to be close to her.

It had taken an army of wights, an undead dragon and near death to act on her feelings but here they are, at her own instigation, close as can be and things are going a lot better than she had reason to believe.

Nevertheless Sansa braces herself for the inevitable pain that is about to come when he will claim her body, but she is about to find out that the Hound is anything but predictable.

Sandor Clegane is not a monster, nor is he an idiot. He is fully aware of what the girl has been through. She is hiding it well, but he can smell fear. He is also aware of her resolve not to be ruled by it and he admires her courage. In any way he has her where he wants her, underneath him and at his mercy and he'll be damned if he is not going to take some more advantage of the situation.

He starts by caressing the velvety skin at her throat, where he can see the vein rapidly jumping to the beating of her heart. No, she is not calm, and she ought not to be, not with him in her bed.

Next he pays homage to the lush half globes no one would suspect to find under her customary tightly corseted dresses. He dares to nip at the pink tips and is instantly rewarded with visible success. The girl's breathing becomes more laboured as he continues his journey to her belly button.

Her waist is so slim, he can encircle it easily with his hands and he does so. After that it seems only natural to cup her firm buttocks and lift her pelvis a few inches from the bed while he settles his upper body between her thighs.

Now he can see the prize. He can smell it, too and it makes him dizzy. If he had not yet been convinced that she really does want him, here is proof.

His eyes dart to her face and he finds her propped up on her elbows, staring at him in bewilderment but she does not protest.

Nothing is to be gained by hesitating now so he winks at her and dives right in. She yelps when his tongue flicks over the tiny button between her legs and now she scrambles to move away, but he grasps her hips and holds her in place. The next lick turns the yelp into a sigh, the sighs become moans and the moans soon give way to helpless whimpering. She bucks and writhes under his mouth but he is not alarmed, she is not trying to get away anymore. If anything she strains to get closer, give him more access. Truth is, she is as close as she can get. If her clawing at the sheets is any indication, she is ready to jump over the edge. Only moments later she does.

Her sighs and moans and whimpering accumulate into one long cry of release. Her legs close, trapping his head between them but Sandor does not mind. He feasts on her flesh and her juices and gets drunk on her scent.

In hindsight it is a very good thing that Sansa has send the guard outside away; who'd have thought that the little bird can sing like that!

Even so, the Hound half awaits for someone to rush through the door and demand his head for defiling the Lady of the castle. But no booted feet come running down the corridor, no clanging of swords, no shouts can be heard. The only sound is made by Sansa's ragged breaths as she slowly comes back from wherever he has taken her. And he has not even taken her yet! Alas, the moment is imminent and he quickly deals with the breeches he still is wearing.

He comes out of them fully erect, his dick throbbing almost painfully, but he waits, prolonging the sweet anticipation because her eyes are still shut and he wants to look into them when at long last he enters her.

Carefully positioning himself, supporting his body on arms strong as columns left and right of her, he is like the hunter, motionless but alert, preparing for the move to kill.

Her eyelids flutter and open, grey gems focus on the bearded face glaring down. There is no warning. It only takes one powerful thrust and he is inside of her.

Sansa gasps, her eyes widen with the shock of him becoming a part of her but there is no fear now, only wonder, and she does not close them as he begins to move boldly. He cannot hold back any longer and as he is moving faster Sansa needs to hold on to something or she will be driven into the headboard. But there is nothing except him. So she makes use of his arms and wraps her legs around his back, opening herself even more for him until he shudders and with a deep groan slams into her one last time before resting his forhead on her chest.

She cradles this big dark head in her arms and the Hound permits himself to be held like that while catching his breath. Not too long, because he is afraid she will suffocate under his weight, but when he moves to pull out she digs her heels in. Literally, since her legs are still entwined behind his back.

„Not yet," she pleads softly.

There it is again, that expression of utter disbelieve that has already made her heart leap, earlier when she had taken his hand in the great hall.

He thinks on it for a second and finds that he can indulge her, but rolls to the side so they lie facing each other, the rough, hulky man and the graceful, delicate lady. Her left leg is still dangling over his right side as if to make sure he does not break away suddenly.

Sansa feels that it is crucial he stays a part of her for this aftermath. They will have to talk at some point and she has no idea what to say to a man after sharing what they just did. She is equally convinced that Sandor would prefer to bring some distance between them but she can't deal with any biting comments just now. She hopes he will be less inclined to bite verbally if he remains where he is.

Truth be told, the Hound is in no hurry to say anything or go anywhere. He is quite content with the incredible turn this evening has taken, even though he is not entirely sure he is not dreaming.

The redhaired beauty fits neatly under his armpit and he is glad he had a good wash this morning. Sansa's braid has come undone and the big man grabs a good portion of it, drapes it over her shoulder. The fiery colour belies her usual coolness and composure. Now that he has had a taste of the temperament that simmers under the white alabaster skin, he wonders whether he can coax her into truly unleashing her passion.

Presently she absentmindedly combs the fingers of her left hand through his chesthair and seems fairly detached from the here and now. Sandor frowns. "I hope you are not checking me for fleas."

The combing fingers freeze to a halt. She bends her head a little, shoulders shaking. What the...? He lets go of the silky strands, his hand shoots to her chin instead, forcing her to look up. To his amazement she is laughing!

"What? Now you think I am funny?" He tries to master a menacing expression but judging by her continued smile he is failing miserably. "Yes," she admits and places both her hands flat on his massive chest, "actually you are many things I never expected you to be."

He raises his undamaged eyebrow. "And you are not just saying that because I can easily break your jaw?" Sansa shakes her head as far as she can under the circumstances. He loosens the grip on her chin and slides his hand lower, to her throat, squeezing just enough to make breath audible. The smile has vanished but her eyes display no trace of panic, her body does not tense.

Satisfied he releases her neck but not her gaze. "Why me," he asks the question that has been nagging him, "when every nobleman or prince or king in Westeros would be more fitting and willing to bed you?"

"Kings and princes and nobles, they have all betrayed or hurt or disappointed me in one way or another. You never did." In a daring gesture of intimacy Sansa lays a gentle hand on the ravished side of his face. "You are a good man and I trust you more than any. I can't think of a better reason." She pauses, inhales deeply but is not finished.

"Men are to me what fire is to you: an evil I have to deal with out of necessity, but I hate them and I despise them and they fill me with dread. That is no way to live. I need to overcome this fear."

During her speech Sandor has begun to rock his hips ever so slowly. Not out of indifference to her words but because what she is saying has made him hard again and he wants her to know it.

"You are doing fine, little bird", he reassures her in a voice so low it's barely a hum, "you are doing just fine."

"Will you stop calling me that already", she accosts him and playfully slaps his shoulder. "Call me by my name!"

Sandor Clegane seizes her arms and rolls onto his back, taking her with him so she ends up sitting on top of him, neatly held in place by his erection. "Make me!"

The Hound can be playfull, too.


	5. Chapter 5

-5-

Playful hound. Another side to him Sansa has not anticipated to ever encounter. Can she rise to the challenge? At present she is busy adjusting to their inverted positions. For starters she manages to regain balance by putting her hands where they seem to belong of late: on his body.

He is still languidly rocking his hips up and down and she goes with the flow. It's not much different from riding a horse really, except for the added perk of the rather large extra saddle knob inside of her. Needing to shift her weight to be more comfortable she leans forward and a curtain of red closes around her head, it's hem trailing along his midriff. Sandor moans and reaches for her. Following a hunch she bends even more, making sure his upper body is well covered by her auburn mane, grazing his skin with her breasts in the process. When her experiment results in another deep hum, she knows for sure she is on to something: her actions cause reactions.

Straightening up she is greeted by a glare of fierce intensity that causes her to shudder slightly – with delight.

Sansa is fast to realise that being on top offers some major advantages. She can move freely, gets a much better look at him, experiences a range of novel sensations and it gives her an exhilarating sense of being in control. Eager to test these new discoveries she alters the course of Clegane's movements and is thrilled when he is more than willing to follow her lead. „Willing" in all likelyhood being the understatement of the year.

Most people would generally describe the Hound as emotionally detached from, well most everything. Even his anger is usually slow to burn; but witnessing the transformation of the girl he has known since she was but a scared little bird into this sensual goddess is more than he has been prepared for. He is smitten.

Her eyes have closed now, she sways, grinds and rides him for nothing but her own pleasure, yet she accepts his guidance when he offers it. She may still lack experience but she is a quick study.

Holding back has never been his forte but for her he will. Instead of his own he seeks to intensify her fulfillment, admittedly not entirely without ulterior motive. He has high hopes that he will very much benefit from doing so in the longer run.

So he continues to stroke, to tease and electrify her sensitive skin, leaving her buzzing with energy.

She desperately chases that sweet deliverance he has given her earlier but for some reason it keeps evading her. Something is still missing, something that he had provided...resolutely she shoves his right hand to her groin, trusting that he will know what to do. And indeed, he does.

Once more her world explodes in a blast of colours. Her head thrown back, mouth open and her back arched she is oblivious to his struggle not to come there and then. But much as he aches to unload his seed into her, he wants to absorb this picture, wants it to be engraved on his mind forever. Armed with such a vision he will laugh at the fires of hell and the devil himself.

Eventually Sansa's body relaxes, though she is still swaying slightly, partly from the force of her orgasm and in part from the powerful revelation she has had about herself. She wants to relish that feeling a moment longer but even a smitten Hound has only so much patience.

„Little bird has spread her wings," he remarks in an attempt to be kind and at the same time alert her to the fact that some things have been left unfinished.

It is a rare case of perfectly bad timing and judgement.

Sansa had all but forgotten about his little taunt earlier on but at this reminder her eyes fix him with a narrow glare and she knows exactly what she has to do.

Putting her freshly aquired skills to work she sets a moderate pace sliding up and down his swollen shaft but the man attached to it is anxious to spur her on. He feels he deserves conclusion without further delay for having lasted so bravely for as long as he has and Sansa agreeably complies with his wishes. Finally he can lay back and let things go their intended way. He shuts his eyes while his muscles tense up. He is close now, agonisingly close, only a couple more pounces and he is...suddenly and shockingly alone on the bed with his wet dick pointing into thin air while his paramour is striding to the sideboard.

„Wine?"she casually asks over her shoulder and catches enough of his confused expression to almost feel sorry enough to turn back - but only almost.

And then it happens: "Sansa Stark come back here this instant!" an enraged and frustrated Hound bellows.

It is not how she has hoped her name would sound from his lips but it is enough for the moment. Secure in the knowledge that she has won, she flies back into his arms. Sandor's anger turns to relief the same instant but he is not taking any more chances and Sansa finds herself flat on her back, pinned down by his whole body. He is not wasting time either and rams her without reservations, she has proven that she can handle him just fine. A triumphant roar accompanies his climax as he burrows even deeper into her tight, wet, wonderful cunt.

Still panting heavily he manages to withdraw this time before she can protest and falls to her side.

He is fully aware that he has been tricked by this slip of a girl and has but one question: „How did you know just exactly when?" Sansa turns her head with a smug little smile. „You are not very subtle when it comes to that." He is not sure that this does not sound like a complaint.

„Don't see the fucking point in it," he grumbles. Sansa looks back at the ceiling, her smile has vanished. „Ramsay didn't either. One learns to read the signs when all one wants is for it to be over."

It sours him to be compared to the sick bastard but then he remembers something that only half registered through his fury when she'd jumped out of bed. Unceremoniously he shoves her over so she comes to lie face down on her belly. He has not paid much attention to her backside previously and hisses sharply at the sight of the countless white lines, paler even than her skin, that cover her from slender neck to perfectly rounded buttocks. Each is about an inch long and he knows all too well that only a carving knife can produce scars so fine but unfading.

„Ramsay also liked to keep track of his kills," Sansa explains in a practiced neutral voice.

She is facing the other way and he is glad about it. His eyes scream murder but with a tenderness he has not known he is capable of, one hand caresses the blemished skin.

„Did they bury the fucker?" Unlike her he can not keep the venom from his voice.

„There was nothing left to bury when the dogs were finished with him."

„Shame." he sounds genuinly disappointed. "I would have enjoyed dragging his rotting corpse to the next witch and have him brought back so I can tear him apart myself."

Sansa does not know whether to laugh or cry and in the end decides on a third option: she turns around and kisses him.


	6. Chapter 6

-6-

Kisses him square on the mouth and once again he is dumbfounded.

In Sandor Clegane's world kissing is something for fairy tales and lovestruck fools, among soldiers and whores it is not in high demand. He thinks that he must have kissed somebody some time before and that both participants were probably reeling pissed. But this, this is something else altogether. It's not even a kiss in the thralls of passion were folk succumb to all sorts of ridiculous behaviour; which makes it even more incomprehensible.

Not that he is complaining. The gentle pressure from her lips feels decidedly good. He instinctivly responds by pulling her closer and is amazed at how her whole body slides against his as if it is the most natural thing in the world. If he isn't careful he may even begin to think she actually likes him.

That ludicrous notion is sobering enough to give him the strength to pull away.

„I think I will have that drink now." He really needs a break to regain his senses. He also really needs to piss and he tells her in those exact words.

Sansa supresses the urge to roll her eyes at his blunt statement but points out the chamber pot in the far corner of the room. He truly isn't much of a romantic but she still can't help admiring his powerful physique as he walks the short distance and starts to relieve himself. He is not a young man and has a discernable limp as a result of the injuries he suffered from his tumble off the cliff close to the Eyrie, nevertheless he is incredibly strong and well proportioned and the way he carries himself radiates a confidence one rarely encounters unaccompanied by arrogance.

Having finished his business with the chamber pot he continues on to the notorious sideboard and grabs the caraffe filled with dark red wine and two goblets and beelines back to the bed where Sansa has been sitting up in the meantime. She senses that a certain change in mood has occured but is of yet unsure of what it will bring.

As intended the short detour has revived enough of the Hound to beg for a comeback and Sandor does not hesitate to let him off the leash. He stops in front of Sansa and wordlessly hands her the two cups to hold so he can fill them. That his private parts fill most of her vision as he does so is not an accident.

Her eyes widen but if he means to shock her he will have to think of something better. She does not avert her gaze. So far only her nether regions have had dealings with this part of his anatomy and she is determined not to pass on the opportunity to have a closer look. It is, in short, as impressive as the rest of him. Even now he is not entirely flaccid, and it strikes her as sheer impossible that something so large has been pounding into her and she not only survived, but thoroughly enjoyed the process. Distracted she receives the goblets and lets him fill them.

Her mouth is rather dry all of a sudden, and she gratefully sips the dark red liquid. Sandor does not like the way she licks her lips after the drink. Well, that's not entirely true, but it certainly does not help him in his campaign to get the upper hand back. With a huff he climbs on the bed, props his body up against the headboard and downs his own much needed beverage. It's way too sweet for his taste, but it is satisfyingly strong and besides, it's all there is at the moment, so for once he keeps his council and awards himself a refill.

Left sitting on the side of the bed Sansa shivers in the chill night air. The fire in the hearth has burned down to a few glowing embers. It's too late to throw fresh logs onto them, and she does not feel like poking around in the ashes. She could slip under the covers, but he is sitting on those. Instead, she retrieves her robe from the floor and puts it on before copying the way he sits on the bed.

„Is this the moment when you start talking?" The Hound is already halfway through the wine, with each gulp restoring some of the thick hide of defense he is used to wearing.

Sansa frowns slighly. She recognises the taunt but does not quite get it.

„I hear that's what the ladies like to do after fucking, when all a man desires is some peace and quiet to sleep," he enlightens her and flicks an errand strand of hair from his eyes, waiting for her to take the bait.

He honestly should know better by now. In a way it is uncanny how she can see through his rudeness and insults. She marvels at how their roles have been reversed and all of a sudden she is the grown up while he resembles a petulant child. After the long years of being the victim she can decipher the signs of self protection the way he can smell fear, and she does not let herself be drawn into this little game of his.

„Is that what you want now?" Her voice is steady, her gaze cool. „Go to sleep?"

„Nothing wrong with a few hours of rest before a long day of riding," he grumbles but even to his own ears he sounds less than convincing.

Sansa continues to silently fix him with mesmerising intensity. „I consider it a terrible waste of time."

Her tone is still neutral, her body hasn't moved and her words contain nothing that cannot be repeated in polite society, but they effect him more profoundly than a whorehouse full of dornish women.

Damn it, she is winning another battle. With a sinking feeling he leans over and places the caraffe and cup he has been holding on to on the floor. The wine has suddenly lost it's taste and purpose.

„What is it that you want from me? More fucking? Because I have nothing else to give."

She tucks her legs under and comes to kneel beside him, her hands form an open cup in her lap.

„Say my name!"

He still wants to resist her, because that is what he does, but he is also tired of fighting on two fronts. Truth be told, he aches to call her by her given name and she has more than earned it.

„Sansa," he let's it roll from his tongue like a spell. There, that wasn't so hard.

„Sandor," she replies in kind.

Maybe she is a witch after all because he can feel something cracking in his chest, like the scab breaking over a wound that has festered for a long time and at last allows the poison and puss to be drawn from it, to finally be given a chance to heal.

And it does not end there. He seems to be shattering into so many pieces. One wants her to stop looking at him like that, one wants to beg her to never stop looking at him like that, one hungers to ravish her on the spot, another to drag her into his arms and crush her to his heart until she faints. In the end he does none of these things but repeats the question she has yet to answer. „What do you want from me?"

The room is darker now, many of the candles have burned out but she seems to shine with a light of her own. Kneeling there motionless, long hair spilling down her front like a crimson gown, she appears to him like a divine being and he realises with a start that he is beholding the only goddess he is ever going to worship.

„I ask nothing of you," her tone is warmer now, „and yet you give me everything. You make me whole again. There is no greater gift."

That is the moment when Sandor Clegane has to admit that she has won not only the battle but the war. She has crushed him more thoroughly than Brienne of Tarth or even his demon brother ever could.

Strangely enough it does not feel all that much like losing when the winning party is so heart wrenchingly beautiful and sits in bed beside you, stark naked under nothing but a thin veil of fabric.

He wants to tell her that he understands, that she in turn has given him back a part of himself he had not been aware still existed. That he is hers, now and forever, heart and soul, tainted as they are. But he can not form such words. He is only an old dog after all, quite inventive when it comes to barking at people but utterly unequipped to talk about his feelings.

So he just holds out a hand in defeat and Sansa takes it, shuffling closer until their thighs are touching. She does not need to hear the words, his eyes are telling her everything loud and clear.

So does the unmistakable hardness prodruding from his middle.

The feel of her small soft hand as she wraps it around his throbbing dick is worth a thousand deaths and it's almost his undoing but he is distracted by the smile on her face, suddenly so close that they both are cut off from the rest of the world by her curtain of red hair, and he does the only thing left to do under the circumstances and what he knows she wants him to do; he kisses her again.

To their mutual surprise they excel at this new form of communication and they both have a lot to say. In time the kisses grow more heated, hands more demanding, breaths more raspy and involuntary sounds of pleasure more frequent, and Sandor Clegane has to come to terms with yet one more unforseeable revelation this night has brought forth: he can do more than fuck. He is actually making love to a woman.


	7. Chapter 7

-7-

It's the small hours of the morning and most of Winterfell is asleep, but deep in the heart of the of the dark, looming keep Sandor "The Hound" Clegane lies wide awake. In his embrace slumbers the Lady of the castle, the very woman who only a short while ago has reprimanded him for daring to even mention the possibility of sleep. And probably will do so again, for letting her 'waste time' like that. Yet, these moments are such a precious gift to him, he does not want to share them, not even with her. In this short time she is his and his alone.

If he has learned one thing in life it is that nobody ever really owns anything. Everything is being taken away sooner or later, one way or another. Loved ones, possessions, hopes, lives...

He has never been one to dwell on the past or count on the future. The first is gone and the latter more than uncertain. All one ever has is the present. And for the first time, in his by and large miserable existence, the present is simply perfect.

He and this incredible girl in his arms, lying naked under the thick furs on the comfortable four poster bed in a room now barely lit by two flickering, slow dying candles, as if they are the only two people left in the world. "If only we were", he thinks but a quick look at her sleeping form chases away the futile thought.

Here, now. Her and him.

He pulls her a tiny bit closer, holds her just a wee bit tighter, for only a little bit longer.

,

When Sansa wakes she is alone in bed. The thought that he has left without so much as a word pierces her like a dagger, but when she bolts upright and scans the room she finds him sitting on a chair next to the cold fireplace.

Sandor has found a few stumps among the spent candles and managed to light them with the last sparks of ember in the hearth. He is already dressed to the heavily studded leather jerkin and, having helped himself to a bit of breakfast from the leftovers on the sideboard, is currently munching on a cold chicken leg.

The relief that washes through her is not lost on him, and though his smirk does not betray it, it warms his heart.

„I thought you'd gone," she states the obvious for lack of anything better to say.

„Was about to," he admits, „didn't see how I'd get away with all that." Sandor points to he scattered pieces of armour at his feet with the freshly cleaned, blank bone he is holding, then looks at it with real affection. „Besides, there was chicken."

Sansa snorts. „Does that mean as long as I keep feeding you chicken you will stay?" She had meant to be funny, but when she says it it only sounds pathetic. Suddenly she wishes he had just disappeared. At least she would have been spared what now is inevitable, having to let him go.

He puts away the bone, his face has darkened. „Come here," he commands curtly, and the lady who has vowed not be ordered around by anyone ever again wraps herself in one of the fur covers and hurries to obey. He pulls her on to his lap and rests his chin on top of her head.

There is no need to explain. She knows there is no happily ever after, no homely life together at Winterfell for them.

His one hand wanders under her fur blanket and begins to suggestively travel up and down her leg. „Do you want me to make you fly one more time, little bird?" She lifts her face to see his eyes and finds her own sadness reflected in them. The thought of losing herself in the sweet realm of ecstasy he offers is appealing, but she shakes her head. "It does not last."

„It never does. Or people wouldn't fuck nearly as much as they do." And Sansa can't help it, she has to laugh. Wise Hound. Now she's lived to see it all!

He takes it as his clue to get to his feet with her still in his arms and sets her on the floor, mindful of her bare feet amidst the amour pieces. „Will you help me?" he nods at the disassembled puzzle. Of course she will but first she needs to find some clothes for herself. Also for a Lady it is not easy to get dressed without help, but he is not above lending a hand.

All dressed up, but with hair still resembling a muddled mess of red seaweed, she sits down at the dressing table and reaches for the brush. Sandor takes it from her hand and runs it through the tangled strands himself. Sansa watches his reflection in the mirror and catches a glimps of what life could have been, in another time, in another world.

And maybe it will be one day, even if not with him. She is, after all, just past her twentieth nameday. But right now it is impossible to imagine she will ever feel that close, that free, that secure with any other person.

Suddenly seeing him hold a dagger instead of the brush clashes somewhat with her notion of being safe.

Before she can react he has cut off a lock of shiny red hair. With an apologetic smile he wraps the long strand around the hilt of his weapon and stores it away.

„You could have asked!" she shoots at him.

„I could have taken much more. I hear it's the latest fashion in King's Landing."

Sansa spins around to face him directly. „You are evil!"

„And you'll do well not to forget that," he retorts dryly, takes a step back and holds out a hand to help her to her feet. „Shall we?"

All too soon he is standing in front of her in full regalia, all warrior, and she has fixed her braid in a tight crown around her head, looking every inch the severe mistress of the castle. There is no more room for stalling.

She has not expected it to be so hard. In all her fantasies she has only ever tried to envision how it would be if they got together. She has never rehearsed saying good bye.

Not that it is easy on him but he has already said his goodbyes while she was sleeping in his arms and now he watches with a mixture of awe and wonder her struggle for what to say.

„Do you want me to kill the guards?"

„I beg your pardon?" for once she has absolutely no idea what he is talking about.

„The guards outside. They saw me come in. Never saw me leave. I can say the lazy buggers were sleeping. Can even have their guts for it. But watch will have changed. Those fuckers in the corridor now, they will know for sure I was here long enough."

Her gaze is suddenly icy and hard. „Do you think I am ashamed?" she asks with a voice so sharp it could cut through a man easily. „Do you think I should be?"

He thinks that he should have kept his mouth shut but it's too late now. „Don't want people to wag their foul tongues at your expense, is all," he mumbles.

„People have been wagging their tongues since I came back, as you well know. Tainted, damaged , ruined... I care no more about what people say than they care about me. I am not ashamed of what has been done to me through no fault of my own. And I will not be ashamed of something that I chose to do of my own free will. Have I made myself clear?"

She is formidable in her anger and Sandor already pitties the man – or woman – who will stand between her and what she really wants.

He bows his head in acknowledgement and putting a hand on the small of her back guides her to the door. She stops, straightens her spine even more and he reaches out to open the door for her. In the nick of time she pushes it shut again and swirls around. Gone is the icy hardness. Her eyes are wide and raw with conflicting emotions.

„Sandor..." she longs to kiss him, hold him one last time but his battle gear is as effectivly discouraging amorous advances as it is preventing steel from penetrating. He ends the dilemma by lifting her up to his level, where she can wrap her arms around his neck and smother him with a kiss that conveys all which can not be put into words, and he answers her in kind.

When she relases him and he gently lets her down she is able to smile and her heart feels lighter.

She is ready as she will ever be to say good bye.


	8. Chapter 8

-8-

The sentry in the corridor snaps to attention when the door to Sansa's apartment is opened. It is indeed a different man and considerably more alert than his wretched counterpart from last night. He also has the good sense not to stare.

Sandor gestures for Sansa to lead the way. He will follow two steps behind, as is the custom but she tilts her head a little, prompting him to stay next to her.

Side by side the tall warrior and the lady stroll through the long and winding hallways, passing a handful of more guards on the way. Each of them standing to attention respectfully. The Hound is pleased to see that last night's short tuition on guard duties has already borne fruit.

Sansa shall learn later that taking the the Hound to her bed has not hurt her reputation with the armed men of Winterfell. On the contrary, chosing one of their own has promoted her image substantially. Scornful or slanderous voices are usually swifly - and sometimes terminally – dealt with.

It's barely past the seventh hour but the castle is already bustling with activity. The first part of the great army will leave Winterfell this day and Sandor Clegane is eager to have a head start to get away from the crowds.

In the middle of the buzz and chattering in the great hall he turns to Sansa. It is the best place to part. He does not want her to accompany him to the courtyard where he will be forced to leave her behind. And how can he ask her to turn away?

He drinks in her beauty one more time, then, scanning the room over her head, finds what he has been hoping for. Times like this, places like that, there is always somebody who requires a word with the head of the household.

„I believe you are needed," he informs her quietly and nods towards the short, round man who is desperately trying to get her attention from across the room; the long suffering and recently seriously tested steward of the castle.

Clearly agitated the man starts to push through the increasing throng of knights, squires and maids and will reach them within the minute.

„So this is it," she thinks. Her hands are clasped so tightly it makes her fingers ache. Sandor pries them apart with gentle force and holds them for a moment, eyes lock one more time. „Sansa..."then the heavily panting steward is upon them.

„Pardon me, Lady Sansa, but I cannot bear this a minute longer!" Sandor lets go of her hands and takes a step back. People are already pushing between them.„Please have a word with the commander of those barbarians, I beg you most humbly. Please come at once!"

Sansa sidesteps a small group of knights aiming for a a vacacy at one of the long tables and is shoved even further away. She is trying to calm the flustered steward and understand what he is talking about and when she turns back Sandor Clegane is gone.

_On the icy road outside Winterfell an hour later._

The lone rider on the dark horse has set an easy pace. It's a long way but there is no need for hurry. After having been camped up with so many people for far too long he is looking forward to the solitude of his journey. More to pass the time than out of hunger he is chewing on a piece of dried meat from his provisions pouch, when out of the corner of his eye he becomes aware of another mounted traveller who is aiming to catch up with him from the side.

Realising who has come to join him he instantly knows that he can bury his hopes for a peaceful and quiet trip.

„For fuck's sake," he says by way of greeting and throws the rest of his snack to the ground. But his disgust is mostly an act. As far as travel companions go, this one is not the worst. All in all they are headed the same way and they both have killing on their mind.

„Are you going to leave me to die again if I get hurt?"

„Probably," Arya Stark retorts dryly. The Hound chuckles.

„You are in a good mood this morning," the 'girl-turned-assassin' observes, „been up to something interesting last night?"

She is really not the right person to be teasing him like that. He turns to her with a dirty grin: „Maybe I did get to fuck your sister after all."

It is a crude thing to say, even for him, but it's not a lie. A man has to stick to a code. At least he has shocked her into silence for a moment. For a split second she fixes him with her coldest killer glare, then Arya throws back her head and breaks into her cackling laughter.

Yep, Sandor thinks, they will get along just fine.

_King's Landing, map room. A few weeks later._

Covered in soot and dust and blood Sandor Clegane and Arya Stark have reached the abandoned map room at the foot of the stairs leading to Cersei Lannister's private rooms, where both their quarries must be holding out.

The Hound can almost smell his brother. Every fiber of his body is charged up by his resolve to end this curse once and for all. He has long accepted that it will mean his own end, too.

But it's not too late for Arya. He has grown rather fond of the sassy little murderess. He tries to convince her, that with the walls collapsing around and above them she will die here as sure as Cersei is already dead, though she does not know it yet. To his considerable surprise the girl sees the truth in his words.

Relieved and not about to waste any more time he has already climbed the first landing when she calls out. „Sandor!"

Those Stark girls, they do have a way of saying his name, he muses and stops his ascend.

„Thank you."

„Tell your sister I died a happy man", he replies and heads on.

_Winterfell. Two days after the conquest of King's Landing._

When the first ravens bring news of the final battle Sandor Clegane's death is no more than a side note in the reports about the defeat and demise of Cersei and Jamie Lannister, along with half the population of King's Landing roasted or slaughtered by their new queen and her liberation army.

Ser Varys has been executed for treason and Tyrion Lannister is awaiting the same fate in the dungeons of the Red Keep. Sansa allows that she has helped putting him there, but in the end his decisions are his, so it does not really concern her all that much.

Outwardly as composed as ever she thanks the messenger and dismisses everybody from the council room. Everybody except Brienne of Tarth, her sworn shield.

The two woman have never talked about their respective indiscretions, they are not girlfriends, but they are acutely aware of each other's grief. A grief which, by mutual understanding needs not be expressed. They sit in silence, nevertheless drawing comfort from the other's presence.

_King's Landing. Two days after the carnage._

The Unsullied control the capital in ruins. Survivors on both sides have begun the grisly task of clearing away the rubble and collect the bodies of the less lucky.

Arya has taken it upon herself to check the area around the tower where she has last seen the Hound. Not because she has any hopes of finding him alive but to make certain that no spark of undeadness has kept the Mountain in his unnatural state.

She has a handful of soldiers with her who remove the debris and dirt from the corpses they encounter. Those are being put on a pile for the undertakers to collect later.

An hour into their search they come across the scorched bodies of two large men, one lying on top of the other. Though they don't have much to go by because of the extensive burns, there is no doubt that they have found what they have been looking for.

Arya has long learned to be as pitiless as any battle hardened veteran but now she has a lump in her throat. She knows better than most that no way of dying would have been worse for him than burn to death. It's a consolation to find that most of his bones are broken. She can only hope that the fall has killed him, not the flames.

The younger Stark daughter orders the men to carefully lift the remains of Sandor Clegane off his brother's. This time she will honour him with a proper burial. The other can go in the ditches with the animal carcasses.

They have brought with them a shroud and a simple wooden casket. After the body is lifted and laid on the white cloth, they discover that a dagger is still firmly embedded in the Mountain's skull. Arya recognises the weapon as Sandor's and take a closer look to see if it is worth retrieving. It is amazingly undamaged by the fire, having been trapped, and thereby protected, between the two bodies, and it takes surprising effort to pluck the steel from the bone.

When she holds up the stained blade for further inspection something catches her eye. There, under a string of blackened leather appears to be a strand of hair. Hair of rather unique and familiar colouring.

With a start she remembers the Hound's last words to her. Words she did not take any heed of at the time because all her thoughts revolved around getting to safety. And she recalls his vulgar joke when they set out from Winterfell...can it really be...? There will be time to deliberate later.

She secures the dagger on her belt and orders the men not only to grind the miraculously intact skull to dust but also cut the rest of Gregor Clegane into the smallest pieces possible before dispatching them in as many different locations. Arya is not going to take any chances with the likes of him.

The casket of the man who continues to surprise her even after his death, is to be taken to the crypt until she has decided what to do about it.

She doesn't really get time to think about anything because before the evening comes all hell has broken lose again.

_Winterfell._

A breathless runner delivers the message the latest raven has carried.

Jon Snow has killed Daenerys Targaryan. The Unsullied and Dothraki are screaming for his blood, but currently he is still alive and also being held in the dungeons, until he will stand trial for regicide.

Sansa does not hesitate a heart's beat. By nightfall her call to arms has reached the farthest vassal and bannerman in the North. Within hours they all a have answered. The North prepares to march on King's Landing.

_Camp of the northern army outside the walls of Winterfell. A few weeks later._

Arya meets Sansa, who refuses to take up rooms in the palace and prefers to remain at the camp with her army.

The sisters embrace and sit to discuss further course of actions. Arya explains the precarious situation their brother (he will always be their brother!) is in. A renewed outbreak of violence is almost guaranteed should he for some reason go free. Which of course he must...

In two days the representatives of the leading houses, such as are left, will meet at the dragon pit to find solutions.

At some point they have talked about everything but the one topic each sister is dying to adress but does not know how.

In the end Arya simply lays the dagger she has been carrying with her since that day, on the table between them. Her sister does not say a word, her lips are tightly pressed together but the fingers reaching for the knife are trembling.

„His last words were for you", Arya tells her softly, „he said to tell you he died a happy man."

Sansa is torn between laughing and crying . In the end she smiles, while a tear runs down her face.

„I will keep this, if you don't mind." She takes the blade and Arya nods."Actually there is more..."

_The Dragon Pit. Two days later._

What an unexpected turn the meeting has taken! Bran Stark has been named the new king and all the lords and ladies present have recognised him as their monarch. With the sole exception of his own sister. Sansa Stark has vowed that the North will never bow to anyone again and she is not going to break that vow, not even to appease her little brother.

_Winterfell. A month after Brandon Stark has been crowned King of the Six Kingdoms._

Another crowning ceremony has come to an end. The Queen of the North stands proudly before her people and nobles and knights. It is the moment she not only has prepared for but fought and suffered for all her life, and the people love her for it. They call her the "She Wolf" because she brought the independence the North has craved for so long.

There were those amongst her advisers who would have her wed an heir to one of the powerful houses but she has firmly but an end to such talk. She is not in need of a husband, she can rule just fine on her own, thank you.

Besides, she has been to see her Maester this morning and he has confirmed what she has been suspecting for some time now. She is indeed with child.

In due time she will announce this to the court and the commoners, and there will be no rumors about the child's parentage, because she will announce that, too.

Her child will grow up knowing exactly who it's father was and Sansa will make sure that he, or she, will be proud of him.

After the feast she makes her way down to the crypt, where next to her ancestors, the bones of Sandor Clegane have found their last resting place. She would love to see his face at the news she has to tell him. „The wolf and the hound are going to have a pup." At least she knows exactly what he would have to say to that.

„For fuck's sake!"

THE END

AN: I thought I could deal with the last chapter in a few sentences and it ended up being the longest one!

Big thanks to everybody who came on this journey with me! I, for one, am feeling much better now.


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